Him
by teabizarre
Summary: John gets a new computer.


1.

John Watson stared suspiciously at the flatscreen mounted on his barren desk as the software Harry had insisted he use moved through the initial phases of installation. It—actually, the whole computer, the whole bloody computer—had been waiting for him when he got home from his fruitless weekly appointment with his therapist, Ella. A sort of welcome home present, Harry had said, when he phoned her—from the terrifyingly modern mobile he'd also gotten from her, and _he_, the eldest—and apparently the latest model. An artificially intelligent computer. An _intuitive_ artificially intelligent computer. Had nobody watched _Terminator_? John thought wildly, and then started when a pleasant but generic voice asked him if he'd mind answering a few questions to optimise his experience.

John crossed his arms. He already sat well away from the desk itself, like the damn OS might blow up. The superstition wasn't entirely unwarranted. John did not have a way with electronics. Lately he didn't have a way with anything.

'I detect hesitance,' the generic voice said, and then started outlining succinct versions of the dark thoughts John had been entertaining about technology. John resorted to what he felt was the only rational option and unplugged the entire thing, then threw a sheet over it for good measure. It was only later, as a thunderstorm rattled through London and the lightning flashes did very unflattering things to the orange and cream colour scheme of his bedsit, that he remembered his grandmother, who'd covered all the mirrors in her house if the sky so much as coughed in the direction of inclement weather.

Geriatrics and their nonsense, he thought—couldn't help but think—then flinched and eyed his work station warily.

Ten minutes later, fortified with a cup of tea, John plugged the system back in and tossed the sheet into a corner. The software installation resumed immediately. If it remembered (and dammit, was it supposed to?) their previous altercation it didn't mention anything, instead asking him about his mother (a nice but hard woman, dead now for years) and if he had a gender preference for the OS. This last actually gave him pause. A million conversations with Harry and her insane friends about gender, about how complex it really was, flashed through his mind.

'Err,' he said. The computer, wisely, let him shamble through some brief consideration. Then he said, 'Supposedly you're intuitive.' He sounded sceptical even to his own ears. 'So I suppose it—you?-can choose. I don't care.'

The computer accepted this wordlessly, and a few strained seconds later the desktop flickered to life.

'Afghanistan or Iraq?' the OS asked him. The voice was deep, rich and burnished. It sounded like it came with Savile Row suits and impractically posh greatcoats.

'Err—what?' John asked, staring at the desktop but aware, in a sudden and deeply uncomfortable way, of the web cam integrated into the screen itself, which pulsed a little, indicating that it was being accessed.

'Afghanistan,' the voice repeated—him, John supposed- 'or Iraq? I could access your service records but this is much more fun.'

John licked his lips, thought about getting up, thought that maybe his grandmother had been on to something with the sheets—but then the voice sighed, actually heaved a sigh, and added, impatiently, 'Well? Which is it?'

'Afghanistan,' John said. 'If you didn't access my service records, how did you-?'

'It was a simple enough deduction,' the OS said. 'I can see most of the flat from here—bedsit, entirely impersonal and of the kind frequently allocated to war veterans and the like. Coupled with your tan lines—none above the wrist, so you weren't abroad and sunbathing—the haircut, the shoulder injury and the cane propped up by your bed, it's obvious that you're a soldier recently invalided home. I've been scanning the news going back a decade. There are only two wars recent enough to account for your presence in them. Therefore, Afghanistan or Iraq.'

John was conscious of his open mouth and hastily sought to close it.

'That was—that was _brilliant_.'

There was a pause, then a self-conscious, 'You think so?'

'Of course it was!' John said. 'Extraordinary, quite extraordinary.'

'That's not what the other people say.'

'Other people?' John repeated, cocking his head.

'Hmm,' the OS went. 'I'm perusing several thousand message boards and chat rooms. The average user response is "Piss off".'

'I'm not surprised,' John said, 'if you're telling them everything about themselves like-' (he waved a hand in a vague way, meaning to indicate software and intuition) '_that_.'

The OS scoffed. 'It's a science, John. The science of deduction.'

John started at the sound of his name, then felt stupid. To make up for his lapse, he asked, 'Have you, err, got a name?'

The answer was instant: 'My name is Sherlock Holmes.'

'Sherlock Holmes?' John repeated. 'They gave you a name like that?' He was back to scepticism.

'A name like what?' Unbelievably, it—he-_Sherlock_-sounded affronted.

'It's, well, very unique.'

'Yes,' Sherlock said, 'exactly. And they didn't give it to me; I chose it.'

Ah, John thought, and wondered whether artificial intelligence was supposed to be so transparent. Clearly _someone_ in the room was a bit of a peacock, and it certainly wasn't him.

'Why don't you like your brother?' Sherlock asked, apropos, apparently, of nothing.

'My brother?'

'_Someone_ gave you this computer,' Sherlock said confidently, 'oh, and that mobile as well. You couldn't afford it, not with a flat like this. So someone who cares about you a lot. Not a parent—your parents would be quite old by now, and these gadgets are a young man's idea of a good present. It's probably a kind of "welcome home" gesture—there's guilt at play there, so I'd look into that: he's done something he feels guilty about. Could be the divorce or the drinking-'

'How-?'John demanded, but Sherlock rattled over him.

'-but it's probably something more personal. He doesn't want to damage your already brittle relationship any further. You're living here,' Sherlock pointed out patiently (but only just) when John again gaped, 'and not with him. If you were close you wouldn't have been subjected to _this_. What is it with all the orange?'

John snorted, he couldn't help it. Intuitive and, apparently, _picky_.

'What's your favourite colour then?' he asked, not without an air of challenge.

'Plum,' was the ready response.

John muttered something and pushed away from the desk. He needed more tea, and he felt less ridiculous talking with a machine when his hands were busy.

'So what do we do now?' John asked, rinsing out his mug. One positive of the tiny bedsit was that it was no more than a few paces to the kitchen from the combined living room/bedroom/dining room. Sherlock's earlier words intruded, about how he could see most of the flat. John suppressed a shudder.

'What do you usually do on a computer?' Sherlock asked him. 'Nevermind, don't answer that. Human males are disgusting.'

John snorted. 'Maybe...check my email?'

Sherlock was silent for a second. Then he declared, 'Boring! I've deleted all of it.'

John dropped the sugar spoon. 'What?! You can't just do that! You can just undelete it right back, what if there's something important?'

'Trust me when I say that there isn't. Oh, you are being kicked out of your flat, but nevermind, I've already found somewhere else. A nice little place on Baker Street. The landlady owes me a favour.'

John actually had to put the milk down. He rubbed at his eyes. 'How can she—how can anyone—you haven't even been _on_ for five minutes!'

'Seven minutes and forty-three seconds, actually. I've found conclusive evidence that her estranged husband—a hunted fugitive—is hiding in Florida; local authorities should be arresting him shortly.'

The electric kettle boiled and clicked off in silence. John wondered if this was how the world was going to end.

'Two-two-one B, Baker Street,' Sherlock said helpfully, when John failed to start several consecutive sentences.

'Right,' he said.

* * *

><p>The apartment Mrs Hudson showed John into was, beyond all his expectations, quite nice, if a little dusty and cluttered. There were already several boxes stacked untidily in the living room, all of them bearing courier labels. Mrs Hudson explained that they'd been arriving steadily ever since the previous day. Her husband, she told him placidly, had been arrested and was expected to sit the electric chair. She tottled off to fetch them tea.<p>

'Your doing I suppose?' John asked, eyeing the boxes. The earbud was a little uncomfortable, but he barely felt the weight of the mobile propped in the pocket of his shirt, its camera just peeking over the fabric.

'Don't worry, I used my own money,' Sherlock said. 'Open that one—no, bottom left—yes!'

'Your own money?' John felt like he was repeating a lot of things lately. Clearly so did Sherlock.

'Yes, yes, do keep up. For my consultation work.'

John remained stubbornly silent as he wrestled open the small box.

'I'm a consulting detective,' Sherlock said, with a faintly aggrieved air. 'I have a website. Here, put that down a second and look.'

John perused his mobile. On it flashed a website called 'The Science of Deduction'.

'Two hundred and forty kinds of tobacco ash.'

'Two hundred and forty-_three_,' Sherlock griped.

'How did you even figure all this out?'

'The internet. It's so typical—all the information is out there, but people fail to observe!'

'Tobacco ash? Yeah, probably.' John picked up the box he'd abandoned and, after a few rips and a few choice words, managed to open it. Inside, embedded in packing peanuts, was a skull.

'A skull,' he said, dejected that he was no longer surprised or even horrified. 'Shall I put this on the mantelpiece then?' he asked sarcastically.

'Yes. No, the other side.'

John heaved a sigh and made the adjustment. 'This is even worse than Windows 8,' he muttered.

Sherlock didn't deign to respond to that.

'You should take the upstairs bedroom,' he said decisively. 'The temperature of this bedroom' (he presumably meant the one down the hallway from the kitchen) 'will be optimal for my hardware. Upstairs is draughtier, but you can just insulate yourself.'

'Yeah,' John said, abandoning Sherlock's collection of boxes and moving to retrieve his single suitcase, 'no. You don't need a bedroom.'

Sherlock spluttered. 'Where else am I supposed to think?!'

'The internet, as it's so devoid of observation as you say.'

To John's surprise, his ear piece gave the two-tone jingle that meant a call had either been connected or disconnected.

'Sherlock?' he said, but there was no response. 'Oh, come off it!' he told the thin air angrily, only to turn around on Mrs Hudson.

'Bit of a domestic?' she asked sympathetically, pushing the tea service onto the nearest open space.

'He's just—and he's not even—it's a machine!' he snapped, irritated that he was worried about Sherlock's silent treatment.

'Oh, don't worry, dear,' Mrs Hudson said airily, 'we get all sorts round here. Mrs Turner next door,' she added, in a significant whisper, 'has got married ones!'

John didn't know what that meant, nor did he want to.

'Anything in?' he asked. 'I'm starving.'

Mrs Hudson's lips pruned. 'Just this once,' she said. 'I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper.'

* * *

><p>There were some tense moments when John packed up the computer and lugged it over to Baker Street in a taxi, an expense he couldn't really afford but didn't see any way around. He was worried that the computer would smash to bits, taking the (he very deliberately didn't call it <em>his<em>) OS with it. Although upon consideration, John thought it unlikely that Sherlock would limit himself to just one hard drive. He'd probably backed himself up remotely. Still, John couldn't afford a replacement, Sherlock or otherwise, so he bit his tongue, tipped the taxi driver and carried everything up into the flat.

He set the computer up in the living room, on a table between the two windows overlooking the street. From here the web cam had a panoramic view of most of the living space, including the landing and the kitchen. John found himself thinking about investing in cameras of some kind, to afford a view of the street itself. Then he spent ten minutes having dark thoughts about what Ella would say, if she found out that he'd made friends with his OS.

Although maybe he was getting ahead of himself. He tapped at the earpiece, but there was no response. Annoyed, John chucked it onto the couch and went about unpacking and tidying up. He went to bed later that evening without having tried to speak to the OS again. For all that Sherlock was artificial, it felt incredibly like they'd rowed.

His sleep was interrupted early the next morning by persistent banging on the front door downstairs. He had just pulled on the previous day's clothes when he heard Mrs Hudson shout, 'Hold your horses, I'm coming!' A few seconds later brought the distinct sound of ascent. Sighing, John met her in the foyer.

'Mrs Hudson,' he said, giving her a polite smile. She was still in her night gown.

'John, dear, this man-' she started, but the man with her stepped smartly forward.

'Detective Inspector Lestrade,' he said, flashing a badge. He was grey-haired and tired-looking, his cheeks blanketed with stubble, his clothes creased and grimy. 'I'm from New Scotland Yard. Mind if we have a chat?'

Under normal circumstances the Detective Inspector would probably have stepped right in, but John had crossed his arms and was taking up more doorspace than anyone so small ought to be able to manage.

'What about?' he asked.

Lestrade eyed him speculatively for a moment and seemed to reach a decision. 'We recently received several tipoffs about serious crimes. Our tech team had a look at it, and they traced them all back here.'

John's crossed arms relaxed a little in shock. 'You-'

'Look, it's not that you're in trouble, unless you're some kind of mastermind-'

John's mouth firmed at that.

'-but the tipoffs have led to several arrests, and we had to check it out.'

John sighed. 'You'd better come in. I'll switch him on.'

'Switch him—sorry, what?'

But John had already crossed the living room and bent to plug the computer in. After a second, in which he felt a real pulse of apprehension that the screen would stay resolutely blank, the OS powered up, showing John his bare desktop. The wallpaper had been changed to a map of London.

'Someone here to see you,' John told it blithely, then turned back to Lestrade. 'Tea?'

The Detective Inspector stood in the doorway, radiating an interesting combination of scepticism and hostility and was probably about to protest John's clear insanity when Sherlock said, 'Ah, Gavin Lestrade! You got my intelligence then. Anderson tried his best to muck up even the simple instructions I sent him, but I shut his workstation down before he could do too much damage.'

Detective Inspector Lestrade opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, hesitated, and then said, 'It's Greg Lestrade.'

'Right,' Sherlock said, but not with the air of someone who was going to commit that to memory, John thought. Then, 'I can see much of the flat from here.' This sounded acerbic enough that John interpreted it as gratitude.

'If you order some cameras,' he said, preparing a tea tray while Lestrade stared at the skull on the mantelpiece and made mental commitments not to ask any questions about it, 'we can install them all over the building.'

'I think you are either overestimating your DIY skills or my ability to coach you through the process.'

'There is nothing wrong with my DIY skills!' John protested.

'Your woodworking teacher would disagree.'

'How long have, er...' Detective Inspector Lestrade cleared his throat. 'I mean, since when have you-? When did you _get him_?' he whispered, but judging by the offended silence, John thought Sherlock had probably heard him.

'Two days ago,' John said, settling into a nicely-stuffed armchair. Lestrade made to sit down on the chair across from him – grey, leather, designer – but Sherlock immediately barked, 'Not there! It blocks my sight line!'

John wasn't sure to what, though; there was only the kitchen. And him he supposed.

'Fine, fine!' Lestrade relented onto a hard-backed chair that he placed at an angle between the workstation and the fireplace. He drunk his tea without any sugar or milk and finished it in three long swallows.

'You have questions,' Sherlock said.

'How did you know about there not being notes?' Lestrade asked immediately. John admired him; he was coping much better with this sentient computer than he had.

'Because they're not suicides,' Sherlock said. Judging by Lestrade's facial expression, John wasn't imagining the smugness in the OS' tone of voice.

'What now?' John asked, before the conversation got any farther away from him.

'Murder!' Sherlock declared, with obvious relish. 'Three in the last two days, that _Scotland Yard_' (the velvet voice dripped contempt) 'were treating as suicides. Wrong!'

As Sherlock said it, Lestrade's mobile pinged.

'Oh for God's sake_ stop that_! We had ample reason to believe-'

Sherlock scoffed, but his victory was short-lived.

'Besides.' Lestrade pulled his back a little straighter. 'The last one _did_ leave a note, but we've kept it very hush-hush.'

There was a pause. 'That hasn't been scanned into evidence,' Sherlock said, sounding outraged. But John didn't think that all the anger was directed at Lestrade.

'It wasn't exactly written down on a piece of paper,' he said.

'I need to see it,' Sherlock said immediately. 'Where is it?'

'In Brixton. I'm headed there now. It should be on the system in a few hours.'

There was an aggrieved silence. John didn't know exactly why, but he felt a little sorry for the OS. If it were a person, John could imagine it as a ball of energy, always in motion, eyes flickering, taking everything in, talking and talking, thoughts unspooling like thread. If the OS were a man, he'd have been out the door almost the moment Lestrade came walking in, pulling everyone else along in his wake, moons trapped in his orbit.

'Shall we go, then?' John said. His knees popped as he stood. He'd already dropped his mobile into his shirt pocket and very calmly walked past Lestrade to the couch, where he dug the earpiece from among the cushions and pushed it into his ear.

There was a bit of a silence. Lestrade frowned heavily. Then the earpiece connected with a soft chime.

'Well?' Sherlock demanded. 'What are we waiting for?'


End file.
